Forges of Conflict
by PuppetJutsu
Summary: In a land forged by war and conflict, old grudges and new vengences grow and spread. As the lines between black and white become blurred, conflict manifests itself in a whole manner of ways. A collection of one-shots. Rated for mature themes and violence
1. Fury

A bead of sweat trickled from Sarak's brow. It rolled down his green face and over the diagonal scar that ran across his face, before falling to the dry grass at his feet. The sun sat high overhead, its heat pressing down on the orc. Running a calloused hand across his shaved head, he wiped the perspiration onto his brown leather jerkin.

Crouching low, he gripped the hilt of his katana lightly, drawing it several inches from its scabbard. Got to keep it quiet, after all. Muscular legs propelled the warrior and with a swift lunge, he decapitated his target with the draw of his sword. Flicking the blood from his blade, the orc sheathed his weapon and turned to inspect his kill.

The headless body of the boar laid still, a puddle of blood pooling as the beast's heart pumped the last of its life out onto the dirt below it. A good cut.

Grinning to himself, Sarak pulled a small knife from his belt, knelt down and set to work skinning the beast and cutting portions of flesh. Setting the bloodied pelt aside, the Orc pulled several small pieces of kindling and his tinder box from his traveling bag and set to work building a small fire. Spearing a chunk of meat with his knife, Sarak held it over the dancing flames. Some orcs may like it raw, but nothing would beat charred flesh in his mind. He bit into it, letting the juices spill over his tusks and down his chin. His meal finished, Sarak sheathed his knife onto his belt, sat his sword onto the grass next to him and laid back to rest.

He reached a hand to his thick neck and fingered the crude necklace hanging from it. Nothing more than a piece of yarn, and several long bones threaded onto it. He could remember so clearly, the blood, the carnage. And several night elf fingers to show for it.

Sarak grinned to himself. That was when he'd gotten the name Elfbane. As they swarmed from the trees, Sarak cut them down, blades dancing in the moonlight. Every kill for the Warsong Clan, every kill for Grom.

The cutting of elf flesh, the razing of the forests. Each memory sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. Demon fury raged through his veins as the demigod Cenarius was cut down. Archers, sentinels, druids, priestesses. Didn't matter who they were, each reacted the same to a sword in the belly.

The journey to Orgrimmar was already taking too long. Sarak hated being away from the lumber camp. Ashenvale always had fresh prey.

A black speck in the sky caught the Sarak's attention, silhouetted in the glare of the sun. Squinting into the blinding light, he saw a crow circling the area. He watched it curiously as it wheeled gracefully through the air. Suddenly the bird stopped circling. Beating its wings furiously, it hovered above Sarak. The Orc sat upright, his attention drawn to the crow. If he didn't know better, he would have thought the bird was watching him.

With a sudden snap of its wings, the crow began to swoop towards Sarak, like an arrow from a Sentinel's bow. Wings outstretched, the black missile plummeted from the sky.

A rising tension grew in Sarak's chest, a sense honed on the battlefield. The wind shifted direction, the smell of pine and blood filled the Orc's nose. A purple haze began to shroud the crow, enveloping it, obscuring it from sight. A roar cut through the air and, as Sarak reached for his sword, a giant weight of fur and muscle crashed down onto him, crushing the air from his lungs.

He grabbed the bear by its front legs, struggling to keep it from swiping him as he caught his breath. A stray claw slashed across the Orc's face. Crying out in rage, Sarak raised his knees and kicked at the beast, trying to escape from underneath it. Pushing himself away with his powerful legs he grasped his sword. Swinging it awkwardly from its sheath, he managed a deep cut onto the bear's left foreleg.

The beast let out a roar of pain and quickly leaped off of Sarak. Gingerly rising, he watched as a purple haze surrounded the bear. As the smoke began to lift, he saw a slender form, crouched down, hand held to its bicep. A faint green glow shone through the lingering haze, streaking from its wound. Clutching his sword tightly, Sarak charged, swinging his blade at the wretched creature's neck. Steel met with empty air as the figure rolled to safety, rising to a defensive crouch. The elf wielded a pure white staff, topped with a crescent moon.

Sarak gave a twisted grin. "Druid," he greeted the night elf, sneeringly. He raised his blade, prepared to attack again.

Cold silver eyes glared at him. Sarak smirked to himself as the druid muttered and raged in Darnassian. It had been no more than three days since he had left Ashenvale, since his blade had last tasted purple flesh. Letting his own rage wash over him, Sarak rushed forward. Several feet from his target, he felt something grab at his ankles, tripping him in to the grass. The grabbing became a crushing, and Sarak felt something cutting into his legs. Looking down, the orc saw thick vines entangling his ankles, sharp thorns biting into his claves.

Fury pulsing through his veins, Sarak reached for the small knife on his belt and hurled it towards the druid. The elf barely had time to dodge the blade as it soared past her. Sarak felt the grip of the vines slacken. With a cry of bloodlust, he sliced at his binds, hacking them apart with ease. He swung at the druid but his strike was knocked aside by the elf's whirling staff. He struck again, hard, trying to overpower the elf, but the constant twirling of her staff meant that the force of Sarak's attacks were simply redirected, using their own momentum against him.

The druid was skilled, no point denying it. Chuckling to himself, Sarak reversed the grip on his sword. The echo of Mannoroth's blood lingered in his veins. Rushing forwards, Sarak saw the elf prepare her defense. Striking at the druid, he waited until he was only an arms length away from his target, then, in an instant, ducked under the staff and twisted, cutting one of the elf's legs. As he rose, Sarak spun furiously, slicing into the druid's back and shoulders. He felt a searing pain wash over him, a hasty spell from the elf, but his bloodlust flowed, fueling him on.

Swinging at the elf, he thrust his knee into her face as she tried to dodge. He heard the soft thud as her staff fell to the ground. Purple smoke filled the air and Sarak felt something tear into his thigh. The druid had turned into a Nightsaber, and was prowling, ready to strike.

The game was growing old. The red haze had taken over, and now Sarak wanted nothing but to gut this vile creature. He wanted to paint himself in her blood so he could storm into Orgrimmar, defiant in the face of Thrall's preaching of peace.

They charged at each other. Swinging with all his force, Sarak narrowly missed the beast. He whirled around and saw it limp around him, calculating. He raised his sword. Best to let her make the first move.

The druid pounced at him. Grinning, he saw where it would pass. He swung his sword, aiming at the cat's destination. Paws began to shrink, and the Nightsaber's body thinned and stretched out. The willowy night elf passed over the Sarak's blade, a blade aimed for a larger target, a Nightsaber. Sarak saw a slender purple arm reach into a boot. A glint of silver was all he saw before the dagger sliced through his throat.

His sword clattered to the ground as his hands flew to his wound, uselessly trying to staunch the blood pouring out of it. Dropping to his knees, Sarak looked at the ground. His necklace lay in front of him, cut from his neck. He saw the elf circle back around him, dagger clenched tightly. She looked younger than he first realized. He let out a painful, gurgling chuckle. Who would've thought it? Sarak Elfbane, run through by a whelp.

Darkness came, and the fire in his blood dwindled to nothing.

* * *

She stood over the filthy beast, watching it bleed to death. She hoped it hurt, hoped he was drowning in his own blood. She reached out and asked the blessing of the grass surrounding her, letting its energy heal and soothe her wounds.

She knelt in front of the dead orc, and rolled him onto his back. Placing the point of her dagger at the base of one of his tusks, she thrust the dagger and dislodged it. She placed it in the satchel at her waist. Slender fingers made their way to the silk thread that lay around her neck. Several large tusks were threaded onto it, some yellowing, others pristinely white.

Memories flooded her mind, of red skinned beasts ravaging the forest, slaying her sisters and Lord Cenarius. She remembered this one most of all, hacking and cutting and laughing as the blood drenched him.

When Malfurion Stormrage had awoken, she made a vow. All orcs would suffer the fury of nature, her fury. She had trained relentlessly, swearing to kill the one who called himself Elfbane. She had tracked him all the way from Warsong Gulch, had resisted the urge to attack him there. Vengeance required patience. So she had waited until he was vulnerable.

She spat on the corpse of the beast and put her knife to its head.

"Foul beast."

* * *

Drakthor wiped his brow as droplets of rain began to fall. The storm had approached suddenly. Not that he was complaining though. The heat was stifling. He stood on the parapet, looking down onto the red sands of Durotar. He watched members of the Horde disembark Zeppelins and enter the gates of Orgrimmar.

Looking up, he frowned at the dark clouds looming above as they swept over the city. Gazing in the distance Drakthor saw a crow, black as night in the distance, something grasped in its talons. He watched as it soared over the walls, hovering in the distance. He saw it drop what it was carrying in the centre of the Valley of Strength. It let out a shriek cry and flew off into the storm.

A shout came from the Valley. Racing down the ramparts, Drakthor made his way to the gathering crowd. Pushing and cursing his way through the throng, he made his was to the front. Lying on the ground was the bloodied head of the great Sarak Elfbane. Carved into his forehead was a message. Drakthor couldn't read it, but he recognized the script. Darnassian.

He looked up and saw a youngling being held by his mother, chewing his lip, trying to remain brave. Sighing deeply, Drakthor stepped forward and scooped up the head. The Warchief would want to hear about this.

As he made his way to Grommash Hold he heard the child's wail of grief. The weeping followed the guard as rain began to spill from the ominous clouds, drenching the city and all who resided within.


	2. Forsaken

His fingertips scraped at the ledge above, clawing into the earth. Heaving himself up, Corbin scrambled onto the flat bed of dirt and stone. He peered over the edge and grinned to himself. Often as a boy he had looked up at these mountains, thought them unconquerable by any man alive.

He snorted in grim amusement, examining his ravaged fingertips. The flesh had been torn and ground away from the climb. Flinging his head back, Corbin let out a gravely chuckle. No man alive? He had been cured of that obstacle long ago.

Corbin watched as Edward groaned and cursed as he crawled onto the flat surface. Sprawling onto his back, Edward let out a long sigh. "Well it's not like I really needed hands anyway…"

Corbin stood, his hair and robes hanging lank and damp. "Come on, we don't have any time to waste." He walked over to the far side of the plateau and peered out into the valley below. Looking over his shoulder he saw Edward reach into his pouch and pull out a rune. The mage knelt down and began murmuring his incantation. The air in front of him began to buckle and warp as the portal began to take form.

"Hurry," Corbin snapped. "If we linger too long the wizards will sense us." He gazed out to the city below him, bathed in the glow of the White Lady. The harbour lay just below, flickers of torchlight wandering as shipwrights worked in the dark of night. Behind sat the Great Cathedral, standing proud in the moonlight. At the far end of the city sat the stronghold of the entire alliance, Stormwind Keep. Standing tall and strong, with mighty stone battlements, it remained a testament to the might of humanity. Corbin spat over the edge of the cliff.

His eyes darted to the southern corner of the city. Time was of the essence if they were to succeed without alerting the entire Mage Quarter. His plan was too important to allow failure. His vengeance was too important…

"It's ready," Edward's voice sounded from behind. Turning, Corbin saw the rip in the air, the red glow framing the view of Undercity's belly.

"Good, call the others." Reaching out with his mind, Corbin sent his will through the portal, willing the mass of warlocks and mages on the other side. Connected to their minds, he bid them to enter the portal.

Shadowy forms began to emerge from the portal. Figures swathed in robes of black and grey, red and blue began to spill forth from the portal. Orcs and Trolls, Blood Elves and Forsaken, all volunteers for the mission. Corbin flashed a nearly-toothless grin to the crowd. "Hurry, we need to conceal the area. Mages, on to it!"

Corbin felt the cacoon of magic encircle the plateau, shielding their casting from the human wizards. "Good…very good. Warlocks, you know the plan." Black robed warlocks placed themselves in a circle, leaving a space for Corbin. Joining them, Corbin reached for the stone in his pouch. Still damp, he clutched it in his grey hands and began his ritual, the Dark Lady's words ringing in his ears.

"_You think this will work?" Lady Sylvanas' cold voice rang through the chambers, penetrating Corbin's mind. _

"_Yes my lady, it would be simple enough and, provided everything went well, would devastate the Alliance." If it still beat, my heart would be racing Corbin thought. He willed himself not to grin at the irony. _

"_And if you are caught?"_

"_Then you will have only lost two of us. And believe me, if I am captured, I will go down fighting."_

_The Dark Lady stood silent in thought. Corbin grinned, his remaining teeth rotten and barely clinging to his decaying gums._

"_Very well," Sylvanas said, "I trust you will succeed. After all," a ghost of a smirk grew on her face, "we both know failure will be punishment enough for you."_

_It was the simplest of plans. So simple that even Corbin had had his doubts. But as the seeds of the idea began to spread and grow, he soon saw its potential. Himself and a mage would acquire a boat and sail down the coast until they just out of the lighthouse's sight. Abandoning the boat in a small cove, they swam underwater to the mountains. Corbin was confident that he could climb them. Life was no longer a burden he carried. He no longer feared death, death would be a blessing. _

_With the mage Edward's spells, both Forsaken could weigh less, and would fall slowly if they slipped. Clawing at rock until his fingertips were nubs of bone, Corbin and his companion had made it. The portal was the next step… _

Opening his eyes, Corbin saw the mages watching him in anticipation. "Tear down their barriers," he commanded. He could feel the cold rage rushing through his dry veins as demonic magic filled him. His mind was filled with the sounds of screams. Screams of the past. Screams yet to come.

"_They're breaking through!"_

Corbin's dead skin began to prickle with heat and energy. His incantations became his mantra, fuelling his anger, his fury. The cacoon of the energy barrier crackled with fel magic. He could sense the mages as they struck at the magical barriers surrounding Stormwind, could feel the defences being torn away.

"_Everyone to the Violet Citadel! Hurry!"_

He felt the barrier shatter. His rage spilled from him, and inferno of hate. "Warlocks!"

_Corbin ran as fast as he could. Ghouls clambered behind him, growling and snarling with mindless fury. He threw balls of ice and fire over his shoulder, trying to halt their onslaught. But for every one he killed, three would scramble over its corpse, relentless in their pursuit. Stumbling, Corbin felt a sharp pain in his side. Glancing down, he saw a decayed hand, claws ripping into flesh. He felt teeth bite into his neck, his back, his shoulders. Pain coursed through his body. Cold numbness began to take over. Light began to fade, and as unconsciousness took him, a whisper, harsh and dark grew ever more present in his mind… _

Dark clouds grew overhead, crackling with thunder and foul energy. Twisting winds created funnels of cloud and air. A green light streaked through the storm and a barrage of meteorites fell from the sky. Great balls of rock, smouldering with foul green flame tore through stone and wood as buildings were demolished. They impacted across the entire city, through stores and houses. One clipped a spire of the Cathedral, tearing it from the roof of the great building. Blasts of stone sprayed across the canals as two of the missles burst into the walls of Stormwind Keep. The dry-dock burst into flame and splinters. Fire began to spread across the city and the night air filled with the screams of the injured and the terrified.

Roars thundered through the city as the Infernals rose. Mindless beasts of flame and stone, they tore through the city seeking blood and chaos.

Corbin turned to the group assembled on the plateau. Faces shining with sweat wore similar expressions of glee as the great bastion of humanity burned.

"Alright, we've done what we set out to do. Back through the portal, quickly," he said. The horde began to file through the tear in space, some grumbling that they couldn't stay. Corbin lingered behind, one more task required. Drawing upon the lingering magic, Corbin focused on the incomplete ritual he had asked four of the warlocks to begin. These four he trusted and they all accepted because they knew of his hatred for humanity. They shared it.

He felt the last of the group leave through, but he had to wait. He knew it wouldn't be long. A spike of magic appeared and a thrumming sounded in front of him. Four human mages stood before him, their hands clenched around staves, jaws clenched in anger.

"You! You did this you abomination," a white bearded wizard roared, finger pointed accusingly.

Corbin flashed his widest grin, letting them all see the decay, the rot. "Compliments from a former student of Dalaran," he growled.

The four wizards began their incantations, but with a wave of his hand, Corbin let forth a wall of flame. Two of the mages cried out in pain as the fire engulfed them. The third, a young man with a neatly trimmed beard clutched at his throat as Corbin's curse took hold. Falling to his knees, the young mage gasped for air. But for each breath that left his lungs, none returned. Eyes bulging in agony, he fell to the ground, twitching for a while. Finally he lay limp.

Corbin turned to flee to the portal and felt something cold stab into his shoulder. A shard of ice stuck through, the front end covered in gore and stagnant blood. Corbin felt his feet being encased in ice. The white bearded wizard grabbed Corbin by the throat, trying to strangle him in rage.

"That's not going to work," Corbin spluttered. Snatching a dagger from his belt, Corbin plunged the blade into his own chest. "I can find other ways to breathe," Corbin sneered. Releasing his grip, the wizard watched in horror as air began to hiss from the punctured lung.

The wizard suddenly snatched Corbin's hand from the dagger. His grip grew hotter until it erupted in flame. Corbin screamed as bone and muscle and flesh melted away. Dropping to his knees, Corbin watched as the mage prepared his final spell. Rage, the same rage he felt towards all humans flared.

_He awoke in the mud. Pushing himself up, he tried to recall what had happened. _

_Dalaran! _

_He had to warn someone. The Scourge were attacking, Prince Arthas had stormed the defences. Staggering to his feet, Corbin ran. He didn't know where he was headed, just knew that he had to warn somebody, anybody. The trees rushed by as he clambered over hills and through gullies. He heard raised voices in the distance. A circle of plated knights stood surrounded by the remains of the last battle. Racing towards them, Corbin felt a presence in the back of his mind, whispering to him. Ignoring it, he cried for help. The paladins turned to him, grasping their weapons._

_He cried out again, warning them of the invasion, but the words came out as nothing more than a guttural growl. The paladins approached him, weapons raised. One of them muttered something, and Corbin felt a searing pain as light surrounded him. He saw the murderous looks in their eyes. One lunged at him, but Corbin dodged and clawed his eyes out for his trouble. A mixture of fear and fury rose up. Corbin kicked out at two of the paladins, catching one in the chest. Grabbing the other by the hair, he twisted the man's head to the side and sank his teeth into his neck. Blood gushed into his mouth, tasting bitter and coppery. Gaining the opportunity, Corbin sprinted through the trees. He didn't turn back, he simply ran. His body ached and he could smell his own charred flesh. _

_After what may have been minutes, hours, Corbin fell into a ditch near a riverbed. Crawling to the water, he dry heaved as memories of the encounter flooded back, the taste of flesh still lingering. He peered into the river and saw to golden orbs staring back. His flesh was loose and rotten, a deathly grey, Most of his teeth had fallen out. The ones that remained were sharp enough to chew flesh. Blackness swirled around Corbin, as he lay curled up by the river, weeping at the mockery of life he had become. And as sleep took him, he begged that the voice of the Lich King would leave him be._

The wizard leered down at Corbin, the flames swirling around his hands. "Die," he whispered, his voice quivering with rage.He stretched his hands out, ready to unleash his fury. Giant red fingers clutched the wizards hands, stretching his arms out to the side. The wizard whimpered in fear as a shadow loomed over him.

Corbin cackled loudly. His ritual was complete.

The Doomguard yanked the wizard's arms and Corbin heard the pop as shoulders left sockets. Still chuckling to himself, Corbin stood and turned to the demon.

"Do with him as you like."

As Corbin turned and walked through the portal he heard the screams of the wizards drowned out by the roars of the Doomguard. Acrid smoke lingered in the air as the great city of Stormwind burned.

A rushing sensation assaulted Corbin, and he found himself in the dank bowels of Lordaeron. Undercity. Home. Edward stood grinning in front of him. Corbin frowned at the stump of wasted flesh on his right arm. "Oh well," he muttered to himself, "it's not like I needed my hands anyway." A small price paid.

_He heard the creaking of the wagon moments before he registered the bouncing and jostling. Voices swam around him, but he couldn't focus on any of them. His body ached._

"_Awake, huh?" A voice came clear in his ears, harsh and gravely. A ravaged green face came into view, golden orbs seemingly amused. _

"_I…scourge…m…monst--"_

"_No, we're not," the creature snapped. He drew his head in closer, and Corbin saw a gleam in his eye. "We're free."_

"_Free?" Corbin croaked. How could this be freedom? Condemned to a life without life. Abandoned by all he knew and loved?_

_Green face smiled grimly. "We're taking you to see her?"_

"_Her?"_

"_The Dark Lady. She is the one who gives us our freedom. She is the one who would lead us, and give us our revenge." _

_Revenge. Corbin remembered the hate in the eyes of those paladins, the disgust. He remembered the pain, the searing light. _

"_My name is Edward Deathsong. What's yours?". _

"_Corbin…" He couldn't remember a surname. _

_Edward placed a hand on Corbin's shoulder. "Those who can't remember choose new ones, to signify our new fate."_

_Fate. A life to be lived in the darkness. A curse, never to be lifted. _

"_Shadowcurse." _

_Edward gave a curious look._

"_My name is Corbin, Corbin Shadowcurse. _

_Edward laughed and held out his hand. "Welcome to the Forsaken, Corbin Shadowcurse. _

_Corbin shook it then laid back and remembered his life lost. Remembered his family, still in Stormwind the last he had heard. Remembered his childhood, gazing at the mountains with his sister. Remembered his acceptance to Dalaran. _

_Remembered the glares of hatred from those whom he had sought help._

_Forsaken. He had been forsaken by all he ever held true. _

_Revenge. Where there were humans, there was revenge. Where there was revenge, there was purpose. And purpose is what gave him freedom from his curse, what gave him a second chance at life. _

_Undeath may not be so bad after all…_


	3. Freedom

Tirel wandered through the gates of Stormwind, laughing. He had always assumed he would have to sneak or fight his way into the city, but now it all seemed a stupid notion. After all, there was nothing more inconspicuous than casually strolling in, head held high, hands thrust into his pockets. He had been concerned about the sword strapped to his back as well but as he glanced at the dwarf next to him, two axes at his side, a giant mace on his back, Tirel figured weapons weren't going to be a problem either.

Stepping onto the bridge he gaped at the massive statues that presented him with his personal guard of honour. Tirel gazed at them and saw the plaques at the base of each statue, words engraved into them. Shrugging, he continued across the bridge. He didn't particularly need to know anything about them anyway.

Entering the city, his breath caught in his throat. He had known Stormwind would be big, but he had never imagined how big. Strolling along the cobbled road, he gawped at the large stone buildings along either side of the side. People of all races rushed through the streets, jostling and shoving. Merchants warbled about their wares, while craftsmen announced their skills for hire. Humans, dwarfs, elves, draenei - it seemed every race of the Alliance walked the streets of Stormwind.

Tirel spotted a group of men, armed to the teeth enter a building. A wooden sign hung out front, a rose carved into it, something written above and below. A ruckus of rowdy voices and bad singing came from the doorway. Smiling to himself, he walked inside. Say one thing for Stormwind, the inns are easy enough to find.

The heady smell of alcohol and sweat assaulted his nose, a cacophony of noise, his ears. A group of gnomes sat at a table, singing in Gnomish and swaying unsteadily, steins of ale resting on the table. A group of five human men sat together, their table loaded with food and drink. The aroma of roasted pig, and mutton wafted from their table, taunted Tirel's grumbling stomach. Other patrons sat alone, hunched over their mugs, deep in thought and booze.

Walking to the bar, he perched himself on a stool. A cute red-haired woman stood, wiping a mug with a dirty cloth. "Welcome to the Gilded Rose, handsome," she greeted, "Can I get you anything?"

Tirel flashed his best grin. "How much for a drink and a feed?"

"One silver," the woman replied, giving a sly grin of her own.

Frowning, Tirel pulled some coppers from his pocket and weighed them in his hand. They seemed awfully light.

"Just the drink then?"

The woman snatched the coins away and poured a large stein of ale. "For the impoverished traveller," she said with a wink.

Lifting his mug, Tirel downed half the mug in one gulp. He felt like a man drinking his first water after weeks in the desert. Smacking his lips together, he smiled at the innkeeper and raised his mug in thanks. Eyeing the table of men and their table overflowing with meats, stews, bread and cheese, he turned to the Innkeeper and smiled. "Not to worry about the food," he craned his neck in the direction of the table, "I'm found some friends of mine."

Grabbing his drink, he walked over to the table and hovered behind one of the men who was midway in his story.

"…anyway, I'm in this cave and all of a sudden something rushes in and falls on top of me. And would you believe it, a flamin' Blood Elf. She was something fellas, the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. Anyway I hear this roar outside, the bloody abomination had chased her to the cave!"

"And?"

"And, we waited till it got bored and snuck off. Seemed she was headed south as well. Anyway, we called a truce and travelled together, what with being in the Plaguelands and all. Turns out she was a priestess, headed for Stranglethorn."

"Why?"

"I didn't ask now, did I? That's not the point of the story, the point is we travelled together, and ah, let's just say we got…intimate. So like I said, you can keep you're cheap Goldshire whores. Now that I've had me a Blood Elf, I can't go back."

Three of the men laughed uproariously, the other grumbling something under his breath. Throwing his head back, Tirel laughed as loud as he could. He slapped the storyteller on the shoulder and slipped into the chair next to him.

The table grew quiet as the laughter died as Tirel continued cackling. "Can't go back!" he giggled. Reaching out, he snatched a boar leg from the table and bit into it with relish. "Blood Elves…" he chuckled, his mouth stuffed with meat.

Ignoring the shocked silence of the men, Tirel chewed loudly at the food. When he finished, he tossed the bone onto the plate, let out a great belch and leant back in his chair smacking his lips. All five men stared, eyes wide in disbelief.

The storyteller erupted first. "What the bloody hell do ya' think you're doin'?" he bellowed, eyes bulging, jaw clenched.

Tirel gave a grin, his face glistening with grease. "Just enjoying a yarn and a feed with some mates, don't ya think?"

"Listen friend," a bushy bearded man began, "either you cough up some coppers, or we get our food back ourselves." He waved a dagger in front of his face to emphasise his point.

Tirel scratched his head, and cursed to himself. Damned lice, that's the problem with living in the wilderness. He wiped his greasy face on his arm. This was a bad situation bound to turn ugly, no doubt about it. "What happened to good old generosity, huh? Here I am, a weary traveller, hungry and tired, and…and…what?" he trailed off as he noticed the men staring at him, dumbfounded.

The men all stood suddenly, chairs scraping and clattering across the floor. One of them pointed at Tirel, mouth agape. The storyteller grabbed Tirel's wrist. Yanking Tirel's arm straight, he stared at the back of Tirel's hand and the black cog tattoo.

"You," the storyteller hissed, "you're part of the Brotherhood. You're Defias!"

Yanking his arm free, Tirel grabbed his mug. "I'm just a man looking for a meal, boys." The inn had suddenly grown awfully silent.

Drawing their weapons, the men edged forward.

"Hey, not in my bar!" a voice shouted from behind, "You take it outside or I'm calling the guards."

"It's okay Allison," the storyteller said, clutching his sword, "We'll settle this real quick."

Tirel brought the mug to his lips, and turned his chair to face the storyteller. He peered at the storyteller over the lip, keeping the man's eye. "You heard the lady, fellas. She don't want no fighting." He drained the dregs of his ale. A damn fine drink.

The storyteller took the first swipe. Tirel tipped his chair backwards, the blade whistling inches from his nose. As he fell he kicked a foot up, his boot connecting with the man's chin. A loud crack echoed through the room. Rolling neatly backwards, Tirel stood and faced the other men. They all stood, weapons poised. Except the storyteller. Tirel chuckled. _He_ was unconscious on the floor, drool pouring from his broken jaw. Stupid bastard.

The bearded man lunged with his dagger, Tirel ducked it. The man overextended and Tirel rose suddenly, smacking the back of his head into the man's face. As the bearded man staggered, Tirel smashed his empty stein into the bearded face. Eyeing the other three men warily, he crouched beside the fallen two. He rummaged through the pockets of the unconscious men until he heard the jingle of coins. He removed their purses, a fistful of silvers in each. Standing, he flicked three coins to the innkeeper. He tossed the remaining men one each and pocketed the rest. "Now, I suggest you and your friends leave quietly."

Two of the men shifted backwards towards the door. One stepped forward. Gripping a mean-looking hand axe, he bared his teeth and charged. Pivoting as the man chopped down, Tirel drew his sword and spun around the man, grabbing him from behind. Snatching a handful of hair, he jerked the man's head back and put his blade to the his neck, turning him to face his terrified friends.

"Now," Tirel whispered into the man's ear, "you have two choices. You and all of your friends can leave today. Or none of you can." He pressed the blade into the man's fleshy neck, leaving a thin streak of blood. The man slowly nodded. Lowering his sword, Tirel shoved the man away. The two friends lifted the storyteller and carried him out the door. The axe man grabbed the bearded man around the legs and dragged him out. Tirel sneered at them as they fled.

Aware of all the eyes on him, Tirel sheathed his sword and sat down to the remaining food. The table was packed with it. He'd been in the wild for some time now. The food here would have lasted him the entire time in the forests, when he was scavenging berries and hunting boars and rabbits. Picking up a bowl, he filled it with a thick stew and tore off a chunk of bread. He sniffed a jug of wine and took a swig. He smiled to himself. Moderation be damned tonight.

Stormwind was a great city, indeed.

His meal finished, he handed Allison the innkeeper a few more silvers, "For the ruckus." Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he walked out of the inn, whistling tunelessly.

The cool night air caressed his face as the sounds of soft conversation drifted from small clusters of people, huddled together in the torchlight. He stretched and kicked at a loose pebble on the ground.

"Pleasant meal?"

A woman in heavy plate armour stood leaning against the wall of the inn, a large claymore next to her.

Tirel flashed his winning grin at her. "Except for the company." He eyed the woman up and down shamelessly. No point bothering to hide it. She smiled humbly at him, her arm resting on the pommel of her sword.

"New to the city?"

"That obvious?"

She laughed and stood straight. "I'm Alana," she said. Lifting the sword, she strapped it into the leather thong on her back. Even with her armour he could admire her fine figure underneath, his imagination compensating in places. She strolled over to him. "Need someone to show you around?"

Smiling, he beckoned for her to lead the way. She wandered past him, her bright eyes meeting his. He watched her walk in front of him, watched the swaying of her hips before following after.

The storyteller could keep his Blood Elves.

* * *

Their laughter bounced off the stone walls and into the night air of the Mage Quarter. Alana had taken him around Stormwind, showing him the sights and telling him what history she knew.

The White Lady sat perched high above, it's soft glow illuminating Alana's silvery hair and her soft face. Moonlight glinted off the silver piercings in her nose and eyebrow.

"I need a drink," Tirel said. "Know any good pubs?"

Grabbing his arm, she dragged him through the alleys until they reached a stone building, identical to those around it.

"The Slaughtered Lamb," she announced.

"Sounds…pleasant."

She laughed as she led him inside. "It's quiet here, everyone keeps to themselves."

Streaks of moonlight speared through the dark room, illuminating specks of dust, dancing through the air. The bitter scent of alcohol mixed with the pungent fragrance of burning herbs and incenses. Small clusters of men and women in dark robes sat huddled together, glancing up suspiciously at the newcomers before resuming hushed conversations.

"Why is there a place like this in the Mage Quarter?" Tirel asked as they sat at a small table. Alana pointed to a small group of patrons. A small imp paced in circles next to them, muttering to itself.

"Warlocks. They enjoy their shadows and dark corners."

A dour looking man approached their table to take their order. Tirel reached for his coins. "From my good friends," he grinned to Alana, slapping the stolen money on the table. The waiter fetched a flagon of meed and a pitcher of wine, snatched the money and stalked off.

The pair sat in silence, sipping their drinks. Both swords rested against the table.

"So, can I see it?"

Tirel raised an eyebrow and gauged the woman's expression. Slipping his right hand from his pocket, he spread it out on the table for her to see. "How'd you know?"

"I heard those men say something about the Brotherhood and saw them grab your hand." She studied the tattoo, with a curious expression. Her eyes lifted to meet his. "So, why are you here in Stormwind?"

Tirel swallowed the remains of his wine and refilled the mug with meed. "I left."

"You left the Defias Brotherhood?

"Yep." He took a sip and let the liquor sit on his tongue.

Alana downed her own glass and topped up. "I thought that once you were in, you were in."

Tirel chuckled. "Yeah, but I got out." He patted the hilt of his sword. "That's why I came to Stormwind, figured I'd be safer here than out in the forest." He scratched his head. "Not that there's much to stop a crossbow bolt in the back, I suppose."

Alana swirled her glass. "Why'd you want to leave?"

Scratching his head, Tirel thought about it. Truth was the raids had long lost their appeal. Robbing farmers and unarmed caravans were pathetic activities for the petty minded. Even those with security held no challenge. Constant rules and regulations came from separate sources, each with separate ideals. The whole organisation was a mess.

"I guess I wanted to know what a life outside the Brotherhood was like," he answered finally. He took another heavy swig and felt the pleasant tingle of intoxication in his fingers, the mild numbness in his face. "Freedom is not a luxury given to members."

A woman in the far corner began a soft chant. Tirel didn't know whether it was a spell or just a song, but the effects were soothing nonetheless. Alana placed her elbow on the table and cradled her head in her hand. Her eyes were beginning to gloss over but her lips were curved into a content smile. "I thought that people joined to get away from their lives?"

"They do, normally. I've been there as long as I can remember."

"You were taken?"

He shrugged. "Taken, born in. Not sure. Doesn't matter either way." He watched a female warlock pass some sort of glowing stone across the table to another dark-robed man. "Someone probably thought it would be amusing to let a kid grow up with a sword in his hand and see how he went." He grinned at Alana. "Guess it didn't turn out so bad."

Alana filled and emptied her glass in one smooth motion. She leant across the table, her plate armour scraping across its surface. He could smell the sweet aroma of wine on her breath as she gazed into his eyes. "I'm guessing a runaway vagabond would need somewhere to stay?"

She rose from the table, unsteady on her feet, and smiled seductively. Taking his cue, Tirel stood shakily, the ground suddenly unstable. Strapping their swords on, Tirel and Alana staggered through the streets, arms around each other, whispering and giggling into each other's ear.

* * *

The pale light of dawn streaked through the window and splashed onto Alana's naked back. Tirel ran his hand over her smooth skin, tracing her scars with his finger. Her hand lazily fingered his hair. She rolled onto her side and smiled. The floor was covered in strewn clothes. Two swords leaned together in a corner. Alana ran her hand along the dark stubble on his jaw.

"What are you going to do, now that you're free?" she asked.

He took her hand and began kissing her slender fingers. "Dunno. Travel, see the world, test my sword."

"Travelling and fighting? Is that all?"

"The day I die by the sword is the day I'm not worthy enough to carry one. If I'm not strong enough to survive, then that's that. I deserve what I get."

She leaned in and kissed him on the neck. "I want to fight you someday," she whispered.

He chuckled to himself. He didn't doubt it. "For you, anytime."

* * *

They wandered through Old Town and the Trade Quarter, browsing stores and admiring all that Stormwind's smiths and merchants had to offer. Alana had forgone her armour today, soaking up the sun in a short-sleeved blouse and leather pants. Hair hanging loose around her chin, the sun cast a shining aura around her as she smiled and chatted away beside him, swords on both backs.

"So where will you go?" she asked as they entered a tailors, bolts of cloth draped across racks and hanging from the walls.

Tirel fingered a piece of cloth, feeling its silky touch. "I was thinking north. I've always wanted to see the snow."

Alana smirked at him. "Yeah, I'll bet you'd fit in fine with the dwarves. Eating and drinking and fighting…"

A spindly old man cleared his throat from behind the counter. "May I help you? Perhaps a new pair of…ahem…trousers for the gentleman?"

Tirel looked down at his old black linen pants, sheared off halfway. He grinned sheepishly as the old tailor glared at the tattered hems and bare knees. Alana stood in the far corner, trying to stifle her giggles.

They strolled out of the store, arm in arm. Tirel smiled as he felt the cool breeze around his legs. A voice sounded from behind them.

"There! It's him."

Tirel turned to face the speaker. The storyteller stood pointing, a tight bandage around his jaw, grimacing in pain. Eight other men surrounded him, each clad in dark brown and black leathers. One of the men took a step forward. He stood a head taller than the other men, an ugly grin spread on his sweating bald head.

"Well, well? Sightseeing, Tirel?"

"Something like that."

The bald man leered at Alana, licking his fat lips. "And what beautiful sights they are. Aren't you going to introduce us?"

Tirel looked from the man to Alana. "Alana, one the Brotherhood's knife squads. That ugly brute right there is Smasher. The rest, they aren't even worth mentioning." The men bristled in anger. "Boys, this here is Alana."

She gave a sardonic sneer. "Pleasure, I'm sure."

Smasher took another step closer. Two hammers dangled at his waist, their blackened heads slapping against his leather pants. "So, Tirel, where'd you think you're goin'?" He grinned again, three gaping holes in his front teeth.

"For a walk Smasher, just for a walk." Tirel shifted his foot forward and bent his knees slightly. Smasher was unpredictable at the best of times. Always best to be ready when Smasher was involved. Better to be ready then dead.

Smasher hawked up a gob of phlegm and turned his head to spit. "Boss don't like us going for walks. You know that."

Tirel spat on the ground in front of him, and stepped away from Alana. "Yeah, well that's his problem, Smasher. 'Cause I'm going."

Hand moving towards one of his hammers, Smasher began to march forward. Tirel crouched low, drawing his sword. Each waited for the other to make the first move, the first mistake. The tension grew as neither men dared to look away from the other. A loud snap echoed through the street, followed by a shrill cry.

Alana had the storyteller by the wrist, her fist jammed against his elbow; the elbow bent the wrong way. Tirel laughed. He hadn't even seen the man approach her.

"You bitch, you broke it!" Falling to his knees, the man sobbed and cursed under his breath as Alana released him.

"You're lucky you still have it. Touch me again and you won't," she said, staring down.

Tirel turned his attention back to Smasher. The brute was focused on the woman and the storyteller, his expression half annoyed, half amused. Tirel knew he had to make a move one way or the other. Smasher was a beast who loved nothing more than violence. Tirel remembered coming out of his early raids with Smasher drenched with the blood and gore and carnage.

There was no reasoning with an animal. You were more likely to get bitten than anything else. His decision made, Tirel reacted as best he could think to. He brought his foot up, hard, between Smasher's legs. Piggish eyes bulged in pain, and the beast dropped like a stone, wheezing. Tirel caught Alana's questioning glance and shrugged. No point worrying about it now. Now, he was committed.

Darting forward, he stabbed Davey the Knife between the ribs before the boy could even react. Letting the body fall to the ground, Tirel glared at the rest of the gang. Knife squads were supposed to be made up of the Brotherhood's elite. Tirel had known this mob for years and he considered only two of them to meet that standard, one of them rolling on the ground, panting and grabbing at his groin. Tirel laughed out loud.

"They sent you lot after me?" he asked, insulted.

Quickhands made a lunge for Tirel. A glint of steel flicked through the air, and the man fell backwards to the ground, his severed head falling into his lap. Alana stood with her sword held in the air, blood dripping from the blade. With shouts of anger, the remaining Brothers attacked, two at Tirel, three at Alana.

Tirel saw Alana dodge, her large sword arcing through the air, battering away at her opponents' defences. She fought flawlessly, her technique pristine. She showed no openings as her blade weaved, intercepting attacks and striking back twice as hard. Muscles bulged as her seemingly slender arms hefted the blade. She was an onslaught of attack, never giving her foes the time to recover. Johnny Smithson fell, his shoulder cleaved from his neck. Swifty howled in pain as he lost his fingers, moments before Alana planted steel in his chest. Swifty howled no more after that. She turned to face Tommy the Nose. He darted around her attacks, striking at her flanks, forcing her to go on the defence. She moved constantly, trying to shift the tempo. The fight was at a stalemate.

Tirel's technique was a disgrace, something all warriors were taught to avoid. His guard was lowered at all times. His stance was awkward rather than solid. He showed openings on all sides. He tumbled and rolled around his opponents, narrowly dodging thrusts and swipes. Timmy the Timmy, a weasel-faced man slashed at him. Tirel felt the blade whistle past his ear as he leaned to the side. Tirel stumbled and Timmy stabbed desperately, trying to seize his opportunity. Tirel turned to the side, the sword passing inches from his face. He saw the fear in the Timmy's eyes, the boy realising he had stepped into a feint as Tirel's blade opened his belly.

Now only Greystreak stood in front of Tirel. A veteran, a true Brother.

"Look at you, Tirel," he sneered, "All grown up. We taught you well."

Tirel snorted and wiped the blood from his hands onto his pants. "Hardly. Giving an eight year old a sword and forcing him into raids isn't much of a lesson." He glared at the man and gripped his sword. "What was it? Kill two, or don't come back, right?"

Greystreak laughed and lifted his axe. "Three, if I remember it correctly."

Greystreak swung his axe through the air, wildly. Tirel ducked and weaved and waited. He hadn't had the benefit of formal sword training. His style had come from necessity, from survival. His openings let him draw his opponent's strikes to where it suited him. His awkward stance fooled opponents into thinking he was off balance, when instead it let him change his momentum swiftly. Every movement, every shift of balance, every feint was designed to fool, to distract, to deceive. He leaned forward and waited for Greystreak to swing at his face. Ducking under the heavy blade, he managed a shallow cut on the old man's ribs. He lowered his defence and waited for the attack. It came from the left, but instead of dodging, Tirel stepped inside of the strike. Unable to change the direction of his axe, Greystreak grunted as cold steel slid through his lungs. He looked at Tirel and gave a strangled chuckle. Pulling his blade free, Tirel let the old man drop.

Pain erupted in Tirel's thigh. Smasher loomed over him, mouth twisted in rage. Meaty fists held the twin hammers. Smasher swung again, the hard steel crunching into Tirel's ribs. Struggling to stay upright, Tirel felt Smasher's fist crunch into his eye, knocking him to the ground. He looked up and waited for Smasher to make the last move. Smasher lifted a hammer into the air. A shame really…

The hammer fell. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, Smasher looked down at where his arm used to be. Alana stood behind him, panting and bleeding from her arm. Tommy the Nose lay dead behind her. Looking at the severed limb on the ground, Smasher howled as the pain and realisation hit.

Thrusting forward, Tirel drove his sword into Smasher's throat. Surprised, the animal gaped at Tirel, a gurgling squawk escaping his lips. Darkness grew in the beast's eyes. He began to shake and quiver.

Tirel laughed and looked the man in the eye. "Scared, Smasher?" He pulled the blade free and the beast fell, dead, blood pooling around him.

Fire flared in his leg and chest and Tirel fell back gasping. He could hear the distant rumble of footsteps and muffled yells. He felt Alana lifting him up, as he struggled to stand, her beautiful blood spattered face frowning in concern.

"We have to get to the Dwarven District. You can catch the Deeprun Tram to Ironforge." Limping and shuffling, the pair made their way through the alleys of Stormwind, trying to loose the pursuing guards behind them.

They crossed the canal from Old Town and hurried into the Dwarven District. A twang sounded in the distance and Tirel cried out as an arrow pierced his shoulder. Stumbling, Alana hoisted him to his feet and dagged him past a smelting forge and into an alley. Alana led them into a side door of a building. Quickly shutting the door, she pressed him against a stack of shelves as marching footsteps sounded past. The patrol having passed, she stood from his arms.

"If you run across that road and up that passage way, you'll reach the tram. Hide until you can get on."

He wiped a splash of blood from her face, wincing in pain. "Come with me."

She smiled and a defiant look gleamed in her eye. "Now what would a vagabond like you want with me? You don't even know me."

He smiled his best smile, his dark hair hanging lank over his eyes. He moved forward and met her lips.

"There's plenty of time to learn more."

He kissed her once more and walked to the door. "I'll wait for you at the gates. We can duel in the snow." He stepped into the alley, a grin on his face. Checking the way was clear, he ran towards the tram. He smiled as he saw the carriages sitting there, waiting for him. He rushed onto the carriage and dropped onto his knees, both relief and pain washing over him. He felt a sharp pain in the small of his back.

Craning his neck Tirel saw a dark cloaked man, reloading his crossbow. He felt the shift of the platform as the tram began to move. The man lifted his weapon and took aim. Tirel watched as the man's finger squeezed the trigger. The bolt flew from the crossbow. With a sudden jostle, the tram started forward. Caught off balance, Tirel sprawled onto his side. The bolt sailed past where Tirel had been kneeling, sinking into floor of the carriage. He saw the man run for the tram, but he was too late. Lying in pain, Tirel laughed. A jostle had saved him. If the tram had departed smoothly…

Painful coughs racked his body as he tried to stifle his cackles. Bless gnomes and their technology …

Light swept over him and all he could hear was the grinding of gears and roar of engines. The light grew dim, a distant hammering reverberating through the earth. Feeling the tram slow to a halt, Tirel dragged himself from the carriage, crawling onto the platform and through the tunnel ahead. High pitched voices and squeals could be heard all around. Tirel found himself being carried away by many hands. A dark haired gnome eyed him cautiously as he spoke in Gnomish. Tirel saw the gnome's eyes glance down. One word came clearly. Defias.

Tirel shook his head weakly. "Free…"

Darkness took him, the image of silver hair and soft, pale skin burning in his mind.

* * *

The cold Dun Morogh winds whipped at her face, biting into bare skin. The reassuring weight of her sword on her back and under her cloak, she approached him.

"Just couldn't stay away, huh?" Tirel smirked.

Alana gave a sly grin. "Someone's got to keep an eye on a runaway vagabond like you. Otherwise you're just going to get yourself killed."

Nodding towards the snow covered valley below Ironforge, he held his elbow out for Alana to take. "Coming?"

Taking his arm, they made their way down the path in silence, Tirel limping heavily.

"So, how did you enjoy your stay in Stormwind?" Alana asked.

Tirel flashed his devilish grin. "No complaints."

They stepped off the road and into a snow covered field, littered with animal tracks. Tirel stopped and turned to face Alana, the wind blowing his hair into his face. He reached for his sword and stood smiling at her.

"You sure you want to do this?" she asked. He answered by standing in a defensive crouch. Unbuttoning the clasp at her neck, Alana let the cloak fall onto the snow. Her silver armour looked white with the reflected landscape. Unhooking her sword, she gave Tirel a grin of her own. She muttered a quick prayer and felt the holy light as it flowed through her body, sharpening her senses and granting her strength.

"You didn't tell me you were a paladin," he accused.

"You never asked."

The pair rushed forward, kicking up white powder as they charged. Their swords met, and the ringing clash rang through the empty valley below the great Khaz Mountains.


	4. Underestimation

Blood trickled down his brow and into his eyes. He felt the rough ropes on his wrists, chafing his skin raw. His head throbbing and face puffy and bruised, Tak stumbled along, his short legs shaky from fatigue. Dropping to his knees, he tried to catch his breath. The rope on his wrist tugged suddenly, sprawling Tak onto his stomach. The troll on the end of the rope stepped forward and grunted something in Zandali. Tak didn't have a clue what he was saying.

The troll crouched down, his leather armour creaking. He eyed Tak dangerously and pulled a dagger from his waist, waving it close. "Ya be gettin' up lil gnomie, or else Dar'fon be cuttin' up sometink ya don want cut up. Dat be makin' sense fo' ya?" he threatened in Common.

Tak nodded slowly and stood up. The troll grunted and, with a yank on his rope, began the long march to Tak's death.

He watched the troll from behind. Dar'fon. That was its name. Looking at his other captors, Tak took note of them. There were two other trolls, both shorter than Dar'fon. One wore his hair in long braids that trailed down his dark robes. A spell caster of some sort, then. The other had wild red hair and wore mail armour. A large orc walked next to Tak, ignoring the gnome. Tak's eyes were constantly drawn to the large axe strapped to his back, glowing with enchantments. With a discrete glance over his shoulder, Tak spotted the last of his captors. A massive black tauren with a cracked horn, a great wooden totem hefted onto his burly shoulder.

Using the crook of his arm to wipe the blood from his face, Tak felt the reassuring weight of his locket around his neck. His thoughts drifted to Suli but he forced himself not to let those memories come up. So instead, he thought on his fate.

The party of Horde members had come across him in the forest as he was making his way to Tarren Mill. A swift beating and several blank spots later, Tak found himself being led along on a leash towards the Horde town he was originally headed for. It seemed absurd, really.

"Hey," he yelled, "any of you other bastards speak Common?" Now that the thought had entered his mind, he felt his indignant anger rising. The fact that he was being ignored wasn't helping the matter. "Hey, I asked a question, you stinking beasts!" This time he felt something grab him by the back of his shirt.

The tauren lifted him with one hand, like a toy, and brought the gnome to his eye level. "Say that again gnome, I dare you," it rumbled, its voice like thunder.

Tak answered by spitting into its eye.

The tauren dropped the totem it was carrying and brought up a giant fist. Tak felt the impact break his nose and rattle his skull, pain shooting through his entire head. He felt himself drop to the ground, and for a moment wondered whether the tauren dropped him or simply hit him so hard that he went flying. Blood gushed from his nose as Tak laid still on his back, his face mashed into pulp. Several gruff words were spoken in Orcish, before Tak felt the rope at his wrist being pulled. His arms were stretched above his head as he was dragged along the ground.

Breathing heavily, Tak tried to focus on something other than the pain in his face and the fact that he was being dragged to a degrading, and most likely painful, death.

* * *

Dar'fon chuckled at the amused faces of Tarren Mill's citizens as he dragged an unconscious and bleeding gnome through the mud by a rope. He could still hear Deathguard Humbert laughing madly.

High Executioner Sinew trotted towards the group, a foul expression on his rotten. "What," he asked, distastefully, "is that?"

"It be a lil' gnomie we found, mon. We found him sneakin' around da forest. Seems he was headin' dis way."

The Forsaken commander gave the gnome a glance over then nodded to himself. "Do what you please." With that, he stormed off.

Dar'fon looked down at the gnome, who was starting to stir. He regarded his comrades standing anxiously at attention, waiting to be dismissed. "Go on den, I got dis covered," he shooed them away with a wave of his hand. The party saluted sharply then turned to pursue whatever it was they did in their spare time. Dar'fon pulled on the rope and dragged the gnome into on of the small houses beside the road.

The room was dark, thick curtains blocking out the daylight. Small flickering candles littered the tables and shelves in the room. A large iron cauldron sat in the fireplace, strange fumes wafting from it. The pungent odour of potions and elixirs filled the room, making Dar'fon want to gag. A small undead woman sat at a wooden table crushing something with a pestle and mortar, muttering away to herself. Her stringy hair and tattered robes made gave her an almost moth eaten appearance. Dar'fon cleared his throat and the woman looked up, startled.

"Ah, Dar'fon. Back to our fine village again?"

"Just a short visit, mon. We be passin' through fo' the night."

"A shame, a shame for sure," the woman said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I was hoping to spend some time with you."

"Now ya know ya be my favourite ghoulie, Lyssa, but anyone would tink ya be comin' on ta me?" he grinned at her.

Lyssa stood from the table and strolled over to Dar'fon. "When are you going to let me find a way to infect you? We'd make such a great undead couple, don't you think?" Her glowing eyes flashed in mischief.

"Tell ya what, ya let me borrow yo' place fo' the day an' I take ya out fo' a nice meal?"

"Ooo, I can't wait to see who he is," she laughed. Lyssa looked at the fallen gnome. "Need to housebreak a new pet I see?"

Dar'fon grinned at the apothecary. "Sometink like dat."

With a dramatic sigh, Lyssa walked towards the door, running her mottled grey fingers along the troll's muscular blue arm. "Let me know when you're done, okay?" Pausing in the doorway, she looked over her shoulder at Dar'fon. "And clean up any mess you make."

* * *

Tak awoke, groggy and sore. His nose ached from where the tauren had hit him, but the memory of spitting in its face made him chuckle. It was worth it.

He realised he was in a house, bound to a chair. The stink of some foul concoction lingered in the air, tainting the very room. The vague sounds of Orcish and Gutterspeak could be heard from outside, yells and guffawing and general chatter.

"Ya be awake, mon?" Tak groaned inwardly at the drawling voice. "Dat be good, now we can have a lil chat." Dar'fon's ugly face loomed in front of Tak, a leering grin on his face.

"Sure," Tak replied, his voice hoarse, "what would you like to talk about? Nice weather we're hav– "

A backhand across the face from a leather gauntlet shut Tak up. "Ya be a sassy one, lil gnomie. Ya need to learn when to keep yo' mouth shut." The troll grinned. "Though, dat be pretty funny when ya spit in Gorehoof's face. Shoulda seen da look he had. Mad cow." The troll cackled to himself. "Whatcha be makin a fuss fo' anyway? All dat hollerin' an' yellin'. What ya get so upset about?"

Tak gave a short laugh, pain racking through his body. "I was already coming to Tarren Mill. I didn't need you bastards to bring me."

Dar'fon regarded the gnome for a moment. "Ya be a strange gnomie mon. I met an' killed many of yo' kind, but I never met one as stupid as you. Stupid or brave anyway." His expression was curious. "So, why ya be comin' to da Mill? Youse a spy?"

Tak smiled as widely as he could, the muscles in his face all burning in pain. "Revenge."

The troll looked dumbfounded for a second before bursting into hysterical laughter. Dropping to his knees, Dar'fon clutched at his stomach, gasping for air. Regaining himself, the troll tried to keep his composure, only to lose himself again. Rolling on the floor, the troll finally settled down.

"Revenge? How mon? Ya got no weapons, no armour. Plus ya be tiny! What kinda fighter are ya?"

"Actually, I'm an engineer."

Dar'fon stood up and faced Tak, his expression suddenly serious again. "So ya don' even fight?" He let out a low whistle. "Dat be crazy, even fo' a troll. What makes ya want revenge, huh?"

Tak glared at the troll. "You bastards killed the only person who meant something to me."

Tak readied all his pent up anger. Figuring he would be dead soon, now seemed a perfect time to vent all his frustrations. Not like it could make things any worse.

"Dat be hard, fo' sure."

All anger fell away at the troll's words. Caught off guard, Tak couldn't think of how to respond. It certainly wasn't the answer he was expecting. "What would you know?"

Dar'fon gave a sad smile. "Well dere be my parents, my brotha, my lil sista. Dey all killed by da Alliance." His smile grew slightly more malicious. "Ya tink ya da only one to lose someone to da otha side?"

The two stared at each other in silence. Moments passed before the troll grabbed a chair and sat in front of Tak. "So what was dere name?"

Tak eyed the troll warily. "Suli. She was my wife." He hung his head, not wanting to drag this up.

"Hey, what's dat?" The troll suddenly reached forward. Tak jerked back. His locket. The troll must have seen it.

"Nothing," he replied, hoping he didn't sound too desperate.

A two fingered hand reached into Tak's shirt and yanked the locket from his neck. The troll inspected it closely. "What's dis?"

Tak struggled against his binds. "Nothing, give it back!"

The troll, ignoring Tak, found the latch on the locket and opened it. He stared at it intently for a moment then held it up for the gnome to see the small, painted portrait inside. "Dis yo' wife?"

After a long, tense silence Tak answered. "Yes."

The troll nodded, but said nothing.

"What's yo' name, lil gnomie?"

Tak looked at the creature, this troll who kept surprising him. "Tak Wirefix. Fourth Bombardier Squadron of the Second War, member of the Alliance." He spoke as if to a superior officer, his own little bit of mockery. He hadn't been in service since the end of the Second War.

He smiled at his answer, amused by his own reply. The smile led to giggles, and those giggles soon led to deep belly laughs. The troll looked on, bewildered. Tak could finally hear the soft click and whir of tiny gears. The troll hadn't yet, but unlike the gnome he wasn't listening for it. After a moment Dar'fon also heard the quiet noise emanating from the locket. His eyes grew wide in confusion as his gaze drifted from the locket to the gnome.

Tak grinned manically, eyes wide in anticipation. He hoped that he looked somewhat demented. The trolls expression seemed to confirm it. "You seem to think that you'd caught me unarmed. Do you really think I'd come unprepared?"

The locket was his masterpiece. After Suli had died alongside him in the war, Tak had made it his life's work to create the perfect weapon. The careful mixture of powders, the delicate work of setting timing devices, those were the pursuits he had followed his entire life. Toiling away, Tak worked to achieve his one goal: revenge that he could share with his dead wife. In the locket that his wife had given him on the night of their wedding, he had managed to fit a bomb slightly smaller than his fist into the locket, behind the smiling portrait of his wife. It was fitting, after all, that she get the last laugh.

Dar'fon had fallen for Tak's act and taken the locket like the greedy troll Tak guessed he was. By opening it, he activated the system of cogs that acted as the timer. And despite the lockets small size, Tak had stumbled on a combination of black powders and reagents that he knew would be effective. He had sacrificed his eyebrows for it, after all.

Dar'fon, realising the danger, dropped the locket and ran for the door. The cackles of the gnome followed the screams of the troll into the street, the resulting explosion close behind.

* * *

"Sir, you are not going to believe this."

"What happened soldier? I saw the smoke."

The guardsman doubled over and tried to catch his breath. "It's Tarren Mill, sir. It's–"

"An attack?" Marshal Marcus Redpath's face paled for a brief moment before turning red in anger.

"No sir, it's… been half blown away. The Horde are scrambling to recover. It's…I've never seen anything like it sir. That's why I rode back so quickly."

Marshal Redpath stood deep in thought. That gnome. He couldn't have, could he? As if on cue, a small boy ran up to the Marshal.

"Marshal Redpath, I was told to give this to you when I saw smoke from the north." The boy handed Redpath a sealed scroll. Breaking the seal, he unrolled what looked to be engineering schematics, smeared with grease. Tiny, scrawled handwriting seemed to be Gnomish in script.

"Ready the troops," Redpath ordered. "We attack Tarren Mill tonight."

On the bottom of the scroll, scribbled in bright blue ink, in Common, was a message.

'For the Alliance!'


End file.
